April 16, 2007. I enter my son’s preschool building and watch unseen through the classroom window. He is engaged in some type of complex, made-up game involving flying toy cars and inexplicably, a rhinestone princess tiara. I am spotted and his face opens up into a grin; the smile reveals the chipped front tooth that was the result of an unfortunate meeting between his mouth and the concrete pavement. He runs over and I hug his warm little body, his baby-fine hair resting against my cheek. I can no longer hold back the tears I have suppressed since earlier today when I learned of the massacre at Virginia Tech, my alma mater.
His blue eyes widen, sincere with concern and confusion. In his limited world experience, tears are reserved only for matters of substantial injury or severe injustice, such as being deprived dessert after eating his carrots. “Why are you crying?” he asks. I can’t speak. His teacher helpfully provides the answer which eludes me, “Honey, your mommy is just happy to see you today.”
My cousin is an engineering student at Virginia Tech and has classes at Norris Hall, where thirty victims fell. My family waited anxiously to hear the good news that he escaped unharmed. During the shootings his class went into lock-down, barricaded inside Randolph Hall, close enough to hear the gunshots and see the SWAT team through the windows. He knows two people who were killed, and surmised via e-mail that “I guess it stands to reason, on a campus like this, everyone is linked somehow to everyone else, but it’s still surprising how many of my friends lost somebody among the thirty-three who died today and even though I never met these people, I’ll still feel their loss through our mutual friends.”
In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. My first day on campus was hot and muggy. Hundreds of lively students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their collegiate experience. The throngs of parents appeared not quite as eager, judging from the lingering hugs and earnest lectures about “staying out of trouble” and reminders to “come home soon.”
The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged a minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every item on that list including, to my new roommate’s disbelief and amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage, and said farewell for now, my roommate and I happily surveyed the surroundings that would be our home for the next four years. Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope.
During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, became my close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense and listening to the Grateful Dead, who spent more than half her waking hours designing and building formidable projects for her architecture classes.
Virginia Tech was a peaceful and secure place; college was where I studied hard, fell in love (and then out again) and crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed away after a long and happy life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school (which for the record, is nothing like college); now, many are married and have children.
As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the moms, dads, sisters, brothers, relatives and friends who sent their loved ones off to embark on the college experience in a beautiful, tranquil place (perhaps armed with personal fire extinguishers?) only to learn that their loved ones will never be coming home again. There are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child.
I unearthed a decade-old Virginia Tech sweatshirt last night from storage. It is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors. In college, though, I didn’t care. I wore it often and with pride. I checked myself out in the mirror and asked my four-year old son for his opinion, “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, mommy.”
I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.
His blue eyes widen, sincere with concern and confusion. In his limited world experience, tears are reserved only for matters of substantial injury or severe injustice, such as being deprived dessert after eating his carrots. “Why are you crying?” he asks. I can’t speak. His teacher helpfully provides the answer which eludes me, “Honey, your mommy is just happy to see you today.”
My cousin is an engineering student at Virginia Tech and has classes at Norris Hall, where thirty victims fell. My family waited anxiously to hear the good news that he escaped unharmed. During the shootings his class went into lock-down, barricaded inside Randolph Hall, close enough to hear the gunshots and see the SWAT team through the windows. He knows two people who were killed, and surmised via e-mail that “I guess it stands to reason, on a campus like this, everyone is linked somehow to everyone else, but it’s still surprising how many of my friends lost somebody among the thirty-three who died today and even though I never met these people, I’ll still feel their loss through our mutual friends.”
In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. My first day on campus was hot and muggy. Hundreds of lively students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their collegiate experience. The throngs of parents appeared not quite as eager, judging from the lingering hugs and earnest lectures about “staying out of trouble” and reminders to “come home soon.”
The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged a minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every item on that list including, to my new roommate’s disbelief and amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage, and said farewell for now, my roommate and I happily surveyed the surroundings that would be our home for the next four years. Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope.
During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, became my close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense and listening to the Grateful Dead, who spent more than half her waking hours designing and building formidable projects for her architecture classes.
Virginia Tech was a peaceful and secure place; college was where I studied hard, fell in love (and then out again) and crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed away after a long and happy life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school (which for the record, is nothing like college); now, many are married and have children.
As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the moms, dads, sisters, brothers, relatives and friends who sent their loved ones off to embark on the college experience in a beautiful, tranquil place (perhaps armed with personal fire extinguishers?) only to learn that their loved ones will never be coming home again. There are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child.
I unearthed a decade-old Virginia Tech sweatshirt last night from storage. It is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors. In college, though, I didn’t care. I wore it often and with pride. I checked myself out in the mirror and asked my four-year old son for his opinion, “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, mommy.”
I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.
No comments:
Post a Comment